20 MAY 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Dined with Fournier, who is wonderfully furious over losing vase to me. I suggested we view it together in the museum; he was not amused. He is in the process of acquiring several pieces of gold jewellery found at Mycenae. I wonder at the channels through which such things become available-though he assured me the provenance is beyond reproach.
Rest of the day spent on mundane errands. Palmer has goaded me into buying a new horse, which I shall call Bucephalus, and I placed an obscenely large order with Berry Bros. & Rudd. Must keep the wine cellar up to snuff. Was forced to converse with Miss Huxley in the park on my way home. New-faster-horse shall keep me safe from suffering such a fate in the future.
10
I had always considered the house in Berkeley Square as Philip's and, even after living in it for more than two years, thought of myself as a visitor. Upon returning from Paris, however, I felt the pleasant sensation of homecoming as I looked up at the elegant Georgian edifice, with its classical lines and tall windows. The entire upstairs staff queued up next to the baroque staircase in the entrance hall to welcome me back, and Davis seemed genuinely pleased to see me return. He assured me that everyone on staff would be on the alert for any sign of the man who had followed me and that it would not be possible for the thief, whoever he was, to break into my house. Cook outdid herself at dinner. According to the lower footman, who had a tendency to speak to me while he served, she wanted to make sure that I felt no culinary loss at my return to England, where she was certain the beef was superior to any that could be found in France.
After dinner I retired to the library and looked for something to read. The book I had carried on my honeymoon caught my eye, and I picked it up as I rang the bell for Davis.
"Would you bring me some port?" I tried to sound nonchalant and a bit sophisticated as I spoke.
"Port? Perhaps your ladyship would prefer sherry, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion."
"I believe that my husband had a fine cellar, did he not?"
"Yes, madam."
"I see no reason that it should go to waste so long as I am in the house, and I've never cared for sherry."
"Which port would you like, madam?"
I looked at him searchingly. "I have no idea, Davis. Could you make a professional recommendation?"
"The '47 would be an excellent choice."
"That will be fine," I said, noticing that my solemn butler nearly smiled as he disappeared in search of the port. I looked at the book in my hand and wrinkled my nose. Lady Audley's Secret was not the book a young bride ought to have taken on her wedding trip, and my mother had forbidden me to pack it. I, of course, had not listened to her and began reading the story of the gorgeous Lucy almost as soon as our train pulled out of Victoria Station. If Philip disapproved, he did not show it, laughing instead when he saw what I was doing. He asked that I promise never to push him down a well, as Lucy did her husband to avoid being exposed as a bigamist. I remember assuring him that, as I had no intention of being married to more than one man, he had little to worry about, but that one never could be too careful around wells. I also noted with some satisfaction that he knew the plot and so must have read the book himself.
Davis returned with my port as I was lost in this memory, and I jumped a bit when I realized he was standing next to my chair.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass he presented to me. I looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I shall like it?"
"The 1847 was the best vintage of the century, madam. It does not disappoint."
I took a small sip and sat for a moment. "Delicious." Now my butler did smile. "I saw that, Davis. You shall never be able to intimidate me again now that I know you smile." He clearly did not know how to respond. "I've been sitting here thinking about Lord Ashton. You worked for him for many years, didn't you?"
"I was in his father's household when Lord Ashton was a boy."
"I never considered Philip as having a childhood. Silly, isn't it?" No response from the proper Davis. "What was he like?"
"Always getting into trouble, Lady Ashton. Climbing the roof, scaling garden walls, digging huge, muddy holes. Used to mount what seemed to him at the time grand expeditions through the grounds of the estate."
"Then I am pleased to know that he was able to go on real expeditions as an adult."
"Yes, Lady Ashton." He stood silently for a moment. "Will that be all?"
I nodded, and he left me alone. I took another sip of the port, which really was good, and thought how enjoyable it was to behave in a way no one expected. I was trying to picture a smaller version of Philip tromping through the forests of his manor pretending to hunt for elephants when, for no apparent reason, I remembered the Praxiteles bust of Apollo that Monsieur Fournier had mentioned in Paris. Certain that it was not in the house, I went to Philip's desk and took out his journal, which I had put in one of the drawers shortly after it was sent to me from Africa. During our wedding trip, he had written in the book almost constantly and seemed to record many purchases that we made; I hoped to find such an entry for the bust.
Flipping through the leather-bound book, I came across sketch after sketch of various antiquities, but nothing that could be Apollo. Philip's technique was careless at best, but he managed to create a decent impression of the pieces he drew. Finally, toward the end of the volume, I found it: Apollo, hastily drawn, with "Paris?" written under him, with no indication that my husband had located, let alone purchased, the bust. I was about to return the journal to its drawer when I noticed a sentence written farther up on the page.
K lovelier than ever tonight. She still rarely looks at me when we speak, but am confident this will change. Paris had to convince Helen, after all, and I've no assistance from Aphrodite.
I decided to read more, going back to the beginning of the volume. Here I found Philip's version of our courtship and marriage, the plans for his safaris, comments on Homer, and general musings about the state of the British Empire. I laughed as I read his account of a dreadful evening spent with the Callums, none of the family attempting to hide their desire that he marry Emma, whose flirting had been particularly disgraceful that night. His lament on the pains of being a gentleman was particularly witty.
Soon came the story Colin had told me of the night Philip fell in love with me. Seeing on paper, in his own handwriting, the description of this event that meant so much to him and went largely unnoticed by me, I felt tears well in my eyes. He considered me his Helen. Of course I had to read more.
That he despised my mother surprised me; that this feeling began because she never left us alone in the drawing room before our marriage thrilled me. What would he have done had we been left alone? I loved the five pages he wrote planning what to say to my father when he asked for my hand, but not as much as those written in joyous rapture after I accepted his proposal.
I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to remember the details of that day. I know I had been arguing with my mother when he arrived and that she'd sat in a corner of the room embroidering, shooting menacing glances at me whenever she thought Philip wasn't looking. I realize now that she must have known he was going to propose; my father would have told her. She was probably terrified I would refuse him.
Distracted from my social duties by anger, I had wandered over to the window and stood in front of it looking into the street. Philip had walked up beside me.